


A Family Gathering

by rey_of_sunlight



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Comedy, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dark Brotherhood Questline, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Food, Found Family, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, New Year's Fluff, New Years, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Team as Family, watch as a murder cult becomes a family forged in blood with this one weird trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rey_of_sunlight/pseuds/rey_of_sunlight
Summary: The Saturalia festival to ring in the new year draws close for Skyrim, and the Falkreath Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood gets ready to celebrate. With multiple clashing cultures, brand-new brothers and sisters and the unique perspective on the holidays that comes with serial murder, the Sanctuary stirs up hilarity and tests what it really means to be a family.
Relationships: Arnbjorn/Astrid (Elder Scrolls)
Kudos: 20





	A Family Gathering

For life with Tamriel’s most notorious Family, Quickclaw reflects, settling into the Dark Brotherhood has come relatively effortlessly. Sure, there are the surprises that anyone would have in joining a new group; Festus Krex snoring louder than Alduin's Shouts, Lis the frost spider not understanding the size difference between itself and an ordinary spider and still trying to crawl into Quickclaw's mouth, Babette snatching away the sauce Quickclaw was about to pour on her dinner with a shriek about having mislabelled the paralysis poison.

Well. Perhaps it hasn't been so conflict-free.

Nonetheless, it is certainly less difficult than Quickclaw might have expected. Part of that could be that she has been kept busy. Between Astrid's and Nazir's jobs, as well as Cicero suddenly joining them, Quickclaw has had little interaction with the entire Sanctuary at once.

But it is almost the end of Evening Star. According to Astrid, the Sanctuary mishmashes every tradition of its members together into an enormous New Life-Saturalia-Baranth Do-Xulomaht celebration. All celebrate together and contribute to the festivities.

Quickclaw has never celebrated the new year with anyone before. A life of self-sufficiency dedicated to the claw-dance and scraping out survival tends to do that. It is the first time she has been invited to festivities like this.

Ridiculously for a mercenary, the thought makes her nervous.

*

Astrid enters the dining area and wrinkles her nose at the smell. She’s used to blood, of course, but the sheer...quantity in the air is usually only present when Arnbjorn’s torn through a whole group of targets. And it’s usually never near her food.

‘What is all this?’

Babette’s face appears from around the corner. ‘Preparations.’

Astrid comes closer. On the table are a row of small and large bottles, all filled with blood. It’s been neatly done, Astrid notes, the lack of dribbles or drops attesting to Babette’s skill in handling potions that might eat through wood or human skin.

‘Dear sister, I thought you were helping to source our meal for the New Life festivities.’

Babette grins widely, the gesture revealing her sharp fangs. ‘Oh, I am. There will be enough to last me all through the feast, and well into the night.’

‘Is there anything for those of us not blessed with your gifts?’

‘Oh, of course! Veezara?’

At the call, the Argonian enters the room, bearing an enormous plate. From what Astrid can tell with its head chopped off, it looks about the size of a slaughterfish. Its flesh looks raw, but dotted with...

‘Are those nightshade leaves?’

The Argonian brightens. ‘Indeed! In Black Marsh, we are proud of our spices and herbs. We consume the nightshade plant come Xulomaht to represent those gone before us, and because it produces a most magnificently bitter flavour.’

There is a silence.

‘Veezara?’ says Babette, finally. ‘You do know _why_ nightshade symbolises those gone before?’

‘It is a Tamriel-wide symbol, is it not?’ he says. ‘After all, the farmers of Skyrim seem to live on the potato, and that is in the family of nightshade. Is it not a preparation for the Sovngarde they seem to love so much?’

Astrid looks from vampire to lizard. ‘Has Quickclaw prepared anything yet?’

‘Indeed!’ Quickclaw emerges, with armfuls of still more, smaller bottles. ‘This one has appropriated plentiful skooma. You Nords may be content with mere mead, but Quickclaw believes in a more refined celebration.’

Astrid looks at the Khajiit. ‘The last time I saw your people on skooma, they were competing over who could get a dagger furthest into somewhere I never wanted to see.’

‘You see?’ Quickclaw says. ‘Now _that_ is how one rings in the new year.’

*

Nazir pads through the forest beside Astrid and Arnbjorn for the first time. He shared a kill with Astrid during the memorable job of the hagraven turned priestess of Mara, but that was six years ago. Since most jobs the Dark Brotherhood gets are solo operations, Nazir tends to venture out of the Sanctuary alone.

He's remembering those times with longing.

Of course, Astrid and Arnbjorn are perfectly competent assassins to be on duty with; there's not a snapped twig or startled deer between them. It's more the _looks_ they give each other, the grin Astrid gives Arnbjorn as she spins her dagger showily in one hand, the hungry look Arnbjorn gives Astrid as he slowly shows all his teeth.

Is this why, when they do get a dual-assassin contract these days, those two always insist on going out together? Nazir doesn't want to know.

He tries to focus on the task at hand. They're out to source decorations for the Sanctuary, and judging by the trip he'd taken into Falkreath, Saturalia decorations in this hold tend to consist of fir wreaths nailed to doors and candles in jars hanging from eaves.

Bits of branches are all well and good, but Nazir is certain they can find a way to make it truly a celebration. Nazir certainly intends to construct the demons that represent the year gone past that are so popular back in Hammerfell. He just thinks the demons lack a certain...grounding in real-world anatomy.

He taps Arnbjorn on the shoulder. Noiselessly, the werewolf turns. Arnbjorn may be the most prone to brute force of them all, but even he is too experienced in combat to respond to something unexpected by giving away his position.

'What is it?' he says in a low voice.

'I have some proposals for modification,' Nazir says. 'Certainly, we can stick to tradition, but I think our Family should start making traditions of our own.'

At that, Arnbjorn's eyes gleam. 'Are you suggesting...'

Nazir nods, his grin widening. His blades will taste blood tonight, he is certain of it.

And Arnbjorn steps away from Nazir, towards Astrid. 'Dearest. I think the game is set to be played.'

By the stones of Sithis, that was _not_ what Nazir intended.

'Indeed?' says Astrid, drawing her dagger from its sheath. 'And how shall we play?'

'First to stop the heart.' Arnbjorn's face seems longer now than it was a few seconds ago, his eyes gaining a distinctly yellowish cast.

Astrid raises an eyebrow. 'I notice you haven't specified a prize.'

Now Nazir is truly wishing he'd volunteered to be on the food team, like anyone else in the Sanctuary who was remotely sensible. Whatever _game_ they have going on, he suspects it only just begins by the time they disembowel someone.

Arnbjorn draws closer still to her. 'O my Mistress, aren't you in charge of that?'

Nazir clears his throat, loudly. 'Were we not out here to complete a task?'

Astrid begins to speak, but is interrupted by Arnbjorn whirling suddenly and scenting the air. 'Hunter downwind.'

'How far?' says Astrid throatily.

In answer, Arnbjorn tears free of his clothing, fur sprouting all across his body as he lopes into the trees.

Astrid looks back at Nazir. 'Dear friend, I will have reason to thank you for this night.' Then she's off into the trees too with knife in hand.

With screams of agony coming from the next grove over and more knowledge of his sister and brother than he ever wanted, Nazir lets out a well-deserved groan.

*

Quickclaw is out of the Sanctuary with the Dark Elf, sourcing meats and vegetables for the great feast. Occasionally, they deign to visit Whiterun’s general stores, taverns and food markets. However, most of their spoils have come from using our skills to sneak into the houses of the unsuspecting. Their cart is almost full.

She is uneasy.

For reasons of unobtrusiveness, and to give Quickclaw a legal reason to enter Whiterun, the elf is posing as one of the more old-fashioned Dunmer, claiming allegiance with House Telvanni. While she cannot claim Quickclaw is her slave, not without bringing the Jarl’s men down on them, it is clear who is mistress and who is servant in their disguise.

Quickclaw has not had much contact with the elf since she joined the Dark Brotherhood. Part of that is by circumstance. She has spoken to Nazir and Astrid for jobs, Babette for potions, Arnbjorn to maintain her weapons and armour, but there has been little practical reason to speak with the elf. Yet Quickclaw has not yet sought the elf's advice on a job, nor sought to take meals together. When the Sanctuary comes together in conversation, Quickclaw avoids directly speaking with the elf.

She knows the blue-skins scattered in the eruption of Red Mountain, and their numbers and power are a fraction of what they were. She knows Helseth Hlaalu has long since outlawed the old ways. Yet in a place where her people are forced to squat in ignominy outside every settlement, in streets where children stare and adults do not bother to disguise their hatred, as she walks beside a Dark Elf who sweeps along in robes weighty with tradition while she dresses in threadbare rags, rage and fear coil within her.

After a long day of thieving and bartering, and as the sky darkens, the elf suggests renting a room in the Bannered Mare and returning home the next morning. When they finally settle into the room and the elf has cast Muffle over the door, she says, 'It's good we came to Whiterun together. I have not had much chance to speak with you since you joined us.'

'This one supposes not.' Quickclaw flashes a glance towards her. 'Sister,' she adds as an afterthought.

The elf sends a spark to the candle wick, letting the room dance with its light. 'Have I done something to offend? You must know I wish you no harm; in fact, I was delighted to have new blood in the Sanctuary.'

'Of course not,' Quickclaw manages. Quickclaw looks again at the elf sitting there, thinking of the dark blue hands like hers that whipped people like her, the red eyes like hers that saw people like her as nothing but _mongrels_.

The elf looks directly into Quickclaw's eyes. 'Is it our peoples' history?'

A hiss escapes Quickclaw before she can say anything. When she looks down, she finds she has involuntarily extended her claws. The elf still has not looked away.

'My people,' says the elf precisely, 'have committed heinous acts beyond my powers of description. It is one thing to send others to the Void. It is quite another to blot out their lives with suffering, deny them their very homes and choices.'

'This one looks for no smooth apologies, nor pretty tears,' Quickclaw hisses, and the candlelight gutters across the ceiling.

The elf stops, and bites her lip. 'I did not intend to dismiss your people's suffering with a few words.'

'Even under Astrid's reign, the blue-skin would not live had she intended it,' Quickclaw says.

'Nor would I expect to,' says the elf. 'If there is anything a Dunmer understands, it is a devotion to one's kin.'

Surprise floods Quickclaw. 'So what was it that the Dark Elf was expecting?'

Gabriella pulls an arrow from her quiver and turns it over in her hands. 'Nothing. I do not wish you to wipe my tears for me, nor do I wish any special exemption from the circumstances of our births. I only wish that we might have a word when we break bread, or share a kill or two. I have no doubt I am ignorant in a thousand ways of the richness of your heritage. But we share a heritage now, do we not?'

'This Family is precious, yes,' Quickclaw says, 'but it does not change Quickclaw's blood.'

'Nor mine,' says Gabriella, 'though I have wished the Dread Father might work some miracle.'

That pricks Quickclaw with surprise again. 'What does the Dunmer mean?'

Gabriella gives her a long, wry look. 'Here I am in a foreign land, with the blood of thirty-three upon my hands and a Family of almost every province, and you ask why I may not be fond of my place of birth.'

She laughs at that. 'So this is no good little blue-skin who listens to their ancestors' every whisper?'

'Not those of my birth,' Gabriella says. 'But as for my sisters and brothers in Sithis? I treasure their lineage and wisdom infinitely.'

A mixture of emotions churn within Quickclaw like stew within a pot. At last, she picks out her words. 'Quickclaw was fortunate to find the Family when she did. This one has no way to hide her nature, and this one would not want to should she have the means. To be Khajiit is to have the very moons' strength within one, and to be tricksy enough to survive a thousand years of injustice.'

She pause for breath, and Gabriella waits for her to continue.

'Yet in a land where cold can burn like heat and the Nord spits on any who have more talents than their brainless blocks of muscle, this one is happy to be strange within strangeness.'

'To be strange within strangeness.' Gabriella grins at her. 'Now those are fine words for a Family.'

'Fine words for a festival,' Quickclaw answers, 'dear sister.'

*

Festus Krex returns from the last job of the year to find a fir wreath framing the skull on the door. It looks strangely cosy, and he can't say he dislikes the effect.

' _What is the music of night?'_ says the door.

'Silence, my Brother,' Festus replies automatically. At this stage, if the Penitus Oculatus themselves are behind that damned door, he'll take them. He has more than earned his bed after wrangling that orc.

Giggles burst from behind the door. Festus blinks. One can sometimes hear the odd noise from outside the door, he knows that, but for it to be this audible they must be right up against the door.

'What's going on?' he grunts.

'Do you not remember the password, old-timer?' Babette's clear, mischievous tones are unmistakeable.

'Who are you calling old-timer, dead girl?' he says.

Gabriella's laughter is most audible this time. 'The festive password?'

'The festive password,' Festus says. 'The password of festivities. The password I remember in its entirety.'

More laughter spills from inside the Sanctuary. He racks his brain.

'Ah, yes! The music of night is _Should auld acquaintance be forgot_. Like that old Nord song.'

At that, the door swings open. Gabriella is already down the stairs, but Babette waits for him. 'Happy New Life!'

'I'd forgotten,' he says. 'When you get to my age, you're just grateful to make it from one day to the next.'

'Oh, you're too young for that kind of talk,' she says as they walk into Astrid's study. 'Why, this will be my three hundred and forty-seventh year, and I feel fresher by the day.'

Just at the exit to the study and into the main meeting area, Festus is suddenly hit in the face by...something soft? 'Hey!'

Babette laughs again. He focuses on the swinging object. It resembles those demonic effigies he saw pictures of in _The Imperial Pocket Guide to Hammerfell_ , with its curling horns taken from a ram and the red skin fashioned from paper. Yet its eyes seem more realistic than their usual painted counterparts, and he could swear saliva glistens from its tongue.

'Very funny,' he says, pushing past it into the room.

He levitated the dining tables from their usual place to beside the pool the other day, so he isn't surprised to see them. What _is_ surprising is the amount of decorations that surround them. Holly branches festoon the tables. Fir wreaths, candles in jars and effigies containing body parts surround the tables, hanging from the cave's high ceilings and placed into the little nooks and crannies in the walls. Lis the frost spider is out of her pit, peaceably gnawing on what looks like a whole roasted cow. Even the Night Mother's coffin has been taken from its usual spot and wrapped in holly branches. Surely the clown would consider that an insult to the Unholy Matron, yet -

Wait.

'By the heart of Lorkhan,' Festus bursts out. 'Whose idea was it to give the clown a harp?'

'It was Cicero's own idea!' The clown beams, and plucks all the strings in rapid succession. 'Cicero thought, what is a New Life celebration without a bard? And Cicero remembered that a long time ago, he learned some harp music as part of a disguise! Cicero knows many tunes, yes he does.'

Festus meets Astrid's eyes, standing just behind the clown. Astrid rolls her eyes, but places a finger over her lips.

'Food's up!' Babette reappears from the dining area, bearing an enormous roast fowl. Behind her, Arnbjorn carries roast leeks, carrots and potatoes in one hand, with a large ham in the other. Gabriella bears bottles of wine, mead and blood, while Quickclaw brings up the rear with plenty of skooma.

'Don't forget the fish!' Veezara rushes in behind them, bearing a slaughterfish covered in nightshade leaves. Festus can't see how that's getting eaten, though if it keeps the lizard happy...

At least there is plenty of other food. Cicero strikes up a melody as the others take their seats around the table. Festus pushes in his chair, looking around at the rest of the Family through the candlelight.

'It's been a year I'll be grateful for,' says Astrid, settling into the head of the table. 'Our fortunes are only looking up.'

'We received twice the jobs we had last year,' says Nazir.

'And almost twice the gold,' adds Babette. 'A civil war makes people even more eager to end old grudges.'

Gabriella spears her fork into a roast potato. 'Don't forget our newest Family member.'

'How could we?' Veezara claps Quickclaw on the shoulder. Quickclaw grins.

The harp music stops. 'And me! And me! Don't forget Cicero!'

'How could we,' Arnbjorn mutters.

'Of course,' Astrid says. 'Two new Family members and more prosperity than we've had in a long time. I propose a toast.'

'To Sithis?' Cicero suggests. The others look at each other, but clink glasses and echo the toast.

'To the new year,' adds Nazir.

'And to family,' says Quickclaw.

'To family!' they all echo. They clink glasses as one, far from anyone else, and yet together.

  
  



End file.
